


Driving with your boss, fresh out of a rainstorm.

by KnuckleHeadZ



Category: Time Bombs (Podcast)
Genre: Driving, Gen, I don't know how their shifts work also, Late Night Conversations, Nervousness, take their relationship as you please, this is barely coherent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnuckleHeadZ/pseuds/KnuckleHeadZ
Summary: Mark Midland's a bit nervous about going on shift, drenched in rainwater. Simon Teller notices. They drive during the night and do normal night activities, like drinking coffee, wearing a flag as a skirt, and stealing from a gift shop.
Kudos: 12





	Driving with your boss, fresh out of a rainstorm.

At even thirty five at night, Midland swung open the door to their van, his palms growing icier from the cold of its handle. He hopped in, and collapsed into the seat, completely drenched, from head to toe. His wet clothes stuck to his body like The Radio Bob Special did when it spilled onto the carpet. 

Melting into the seat, he shut his eyes firmly, not even bothering to see Teller’s reaction. He was too wet and tired, and it was too late for this. Anyways, he knew what Teller would say.

First he’d smile, because for the first time this week he arrived on time for this shift. Then, he’d furrow his eyebrows in confusion like he always did. Then it would hit him, that Mark was getting his wet clothes on our only van, and then he’d say-

“Midland! Why, are you soaking wet, and more importantly, why are you soaking wet in our van?”

He blinked open his eyes to his superior, head in hands, but still managing to stare at him.

“What?” He said, trying to be dry, but it came off with a bit too much edge, almost angry. He shifted back in his seat, and hoped for the best that his Boss wasn’t angry.

“Well, you’re soaked, for starters,” he began, now sitting up, “What did you do, walk here in the rain?” He asked, genuinely curious. 

As far as Mark could tell, not angry.

Frustrated, in seeing the water leak into the spongy seats of the van. Confused, definitely - the guy could barely keep track of where he left this keys, the weather was out fo the question. He wasn’t angry, and Mark let his shoulders untense in the van, growing simultaneously more and less comfortable where he was. The clothing was starting to itch.

“Well, boss, that’s actually exactly what I did!” He retorted, throwing his hands high in the air,“ ‘Cause that’s what happens when you miss your bus, and the other one doesn’t come for an hour!”

Simon smirked, glanced through the rearview mirror, then looked back at Mark, because he forgot that Radio Bob wasn’t on shift just yet. “And, you couldn’t just take the subway?” He teased, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. They hovered over the panels, just below the press-to-change radio stations. “Music?”

No response. Teller turned on the radio anyways, flipping through the stations, eventually setting on some top forties pop station, the one channel that wasn’t playing it’s ad slot as the same time as the others. The catchy music played low through the van, as streetlights would sometimes melt into the vehicle, illuminating Simon’s expression. Eyes hard, focused on the dark of the sky, but the bright of the road from the streetlights that reflected on the road. He flicked on the indicator. Then made a left. He probably wasn’t angry, just focused. Roads were always a bit harder to follow at night, anyways. 

Mark shifted against to the side of the van, leaning his wet head, against the cold of the side window, then clumsily shifting his head to the seatbelt, turning away from the gaze he knew Simon had set on him.

“You look like an angsty teenager?”

“Shut up.”

“You get all tense when you think people are mad at you. It’s kinda cute,” he quipped.

“Hmph. I don’t, I didn’t think-”. he faltered, only to be interrupted by Teller.

“It’s a weird thing, Midland,” he began, as if he was telling an old story, “I’m not an empathetic person. I tried, trust me I did, but It just didn’t come. So I started trying to examine faces, try to match the expressions with emotions. And you have the obvious ones,” he continued, “happy, ”he said, stretching out an overexaggerated smile, “Surprised,” he said, putting on what Midland assumed was his best ‘A-surprise-party?-For-me?“ Face. ”Then, all of the flavors of sad…And I’m not doing those one.

Midland found it easy to follow his expressions, the thin of his lips, and the rise of his cheeks. It was pleasant, and he was nearly distracted from his itchy and cold clothing that clung to every inch of his body.

“So, what’s your point?”

“I’m getting there. Just wait.” He took a breath for dramatic effect, and waited until the light turned green. “My point is, Midland, that when I joined the EOD, all of that went out the window. Because you know what people do when they discover a bomb where they are?”

“They look..shocked?” Mark assumed.

“Right. Shocked. And you can’t really tell what’s happening beyond that shock. But then, like all the wires in the bombs, you start to notice patterns. And I ignore them most of the time, they do nothing to get the job done. Bombs are still there if people are nervous, y’know? But they are there, and when you’ve done enough defusals, you can pick up on them real easy. Sometimes people move too much when they’re nervous, but they’ll also stay frozen in place, not talking, no moving, and a suspicious lack of eye contact. Like-”

“Like me. I get it.” Midland said with a sigh. “What’s your point?”

“You’re one of the most confrontational members I’ve worked with, it’s strange for you to not be questioning where exactly we’re going since you got in here.” Mark caught his glance, a warm half-smile. He quickly refocused on the road as the light turned green. “We’ve gotten in spats before, and you’re always at the top of the shouting match.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Point still stands, and I’m not mad at you. So, Midland, what’s wrong?” He asked. The car felt silent between the two. Midland looked down at his hands and up again at his not-mad boss. 

“I’m tired, I’m drenched, and it’s about eight degrees outside. Give me a rest… and hold on a sec, where are we going?” Midland asked. They were supposed to be straight, taking the highway down to a parking station to pull off the night shift. Simon shrugged, still focused on the road. 

“Maybe, we should pick up a towel and a blanket?” He suggested, though it wasn’t even a suggestion.

Mark smiled warmly. “Thanks, boss,” he said, voice going softer than it ever had that night.

“What,” Simon scoffed, “Did you think I would have just waited out the night, with you soaked in rainwater?”

Mark shrugged, the small smile still planted on his lips. “I dunno, boss, I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.”

“Well, wet clothes do kind of smell after a while.” Teller said, the warm glow of the a store light softening his grin.

So, they turn some more corners and eventually pull into the parking lot of a run-down convenience store, the closest place that’s open through the night. Simon goes in, because it’s too cold to even step out of a van without heating. He returns five minutes later, with coffee a batch of paper towels and an American flag, because convenience stores don’t sell t-shirts, but of course they sell flags.

Midland takes one look at the items and laughs, but wraps the flags around the wet clothes, forcing it to absorb as much water as possible. It barely helps. He uses over half a roll of paper on his hair, making it stick up. Simon chuckles, and starts the ignition of the van again. They drive through the road, some barren, some busy, even in the depths of the night. Mark holds the hot coffee to his lips, taking careful sips. Warmth radiated through his body, and he leans back. Still damp, but at least a little more content. Simon seems sated now, not mad or frustrated or even confused. Maybe it was the coffee. They drive through the night, and Mark nibbles on the overly sweet powdered donuts he bought. They count gravestones and houses with red doors, and Mark can’t admit that Simon’s singing voice isn’t actually terrible.

He thanks Simon for the coffee after he downs the last now room-temperature sip, and places the cup back into the holder. 

“Honestly Midland, I’m just glad you haven’t spilled it on my hands.”

There’s a call. A new display at a museum had gone wrong, and they construction workers were one bad twitch from getting their head blown off by a dinosaur head.

They enter, Midland decisively having tied the flag across his waist, now sporting it as some kind of patriotic long skirt. It dragged across the clean white tiles of the museum, probably angering some janitors.

Simon had to climb a comically tall ladder. He gripped the side of it with such force that Mark is surprised that his hand doesn’t leave an imprint in the hard plastic steps. His wirecutters are in his mouth.

Mark watches from the ground, eyes tracing his every move. Simon volunteered, still bent on getting the record, though this year he wasn’t so stir crazy about it. Midland barely moved, as he watched with every tentative step his boss took, until he reached the top.

He was balanced on a harness, but the pit in his stomach didn’t subside when he stood on the very top of the stairs, wirecutters in hand. He was over fifty meters off the ground, about to defuse a bomb. Of course, it wasn’t the bomb defusing part that worried him - not more than normal at least. He was thoroughly convinced that Teller could defuse a bomb with his eyes closed. In fact, he’d offered to try, once, which Mark aggressively denied. 

He only noticed he wasn’t moving much when one of the construction workers tapped him on the shoulder, and he shook and jumped back a bit. He unclenched his jaw, and shifted awkwardly, reminding himself to move around a bit, maybe take a few steps to the left, every so often. 

Simon was only up there for about three minutes before he came down, with the same stupid look of accomplishment on his face, and Mark let out a sigh of relief.

Simon handed him the warm device, which Mark held into his hand. “It’s too bad that we’re not allowed to keep them. I think I’d like to start a collection.” Mark handed him the now defunct bomb, as the smile returned to him.

After they finished scribbling on some paperwork, they passed a giftshop on the way out. Mark walked up, the squeaking of his soaking wet shoes taking up all the the sounds of the empty museum. He pulled the door open in a full swing, and Simon followed. Mark pointed at the camera, and Simon only shrugged, walking over to the clothing.

He picked up a grey T-shirt, with the same dinosaur Simon climbed up on, and Mark got matching sweatpants with the print near the ankle. “Ooh, you should definitely get these ones, they’re glow in the dark.”

“There’s no cashier,” Mark pointed out.

“Well, captain obvious, here’s the thing,’’ Simon said, walking over to a corner of the store he guessed the camera wouldn’t completely follow, and ripped off the tags, with his teeth, shoving them in his pocket. “You can take them for free.”

Midland reluctantly accepted the clothes, holding them in his hands as if they were a bomb that may or may not have had the correct wire cut. They left with a shirt, a pair of pants, a couple of rock candy lollipops, and a fleece blanket for good measure.

He changed in the museum bathroom, and wrapped up his old clothes in the flag, still kinda wet.

They made their way back out to the van, and finished up the rest of the doughnuts while waiting for another call. 

“One day, Midland,” Simon began, pushing his seat far too much back, “You’ll be up there, defusing a bomb, almost a hundred meters off the ground.”

“Can’t wait,” he agreed through a mouthful of doughnut, “I think it really only matters if I’m the one up there. I don’t think I could bare to see another person climb that high,” he admitted, almost shuddering.

Simon watched him intently, slowly nodding. “Go on, if you want.”

“Watching you defuse the bomb up there, made me freeze up again, as stupid as it is. You’re the best bomb defuser I know, but that was way up high.”

“You scared of heights?”

He shook his head. “Not on their own. Not when it’s me. But make that you, or Radio Bob, well, that’s a different story.”

“Right. I get that. You know what I tell all the people who freeze up at a bomb situation?”

“Mostly nothing,” he droned, “sometimes you tell them to move out of the way, but most of the time you’re more concentrated on the bombs.”

“You’re not wrong…but-”

“-Here comes the but-”

“Sometimes I’d tell them to try and relax, to get a drink or something. After the bomb is removed, all in all.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that to anyone ever. Doesn’t that seem a bit…unnecessary and unprofessional?” Midland doubted.

“Fine, fine!” Simon replied, tossing his hands up in surrender. “I think, that maybe we should get a drink. It’ll probably do you some good.”

“Boss,” Simon began with a sigh, “It is, A, two in the morning, and B on shift.”

“It doesn’t have to be for now, Midland,” Simon suggested, playing with his hands. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow sounds fine, just as long as it isn’t raining.” Simon chuckled at that, and put the key through in the ignition. He put his foot on the petal and the agressive but flat sound of the car whirring to life occupied the silence of the night.


End file.
